


Fade to Good

by Astarloa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Asexuality, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Self-Esteem Issues, internalized a-phobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-26 17:51:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astarloa/pseuds/Astarloa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean’s asexual. John, believing that guys want sex all the time, buys him time with a prostitute for his eighteenth birthday. Not wanting to let his Dad down, Dean goes along with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fade to Good

**Author's Note:**

> Note: written for a prompt by Amor-remanet for Geckoholic’s [hurt!Dean comment fic meme](http://geckoholic.livejournal.com/302461.html) on LJ.

“Well, shoot,” a voice says, from behind him. “Must be loosin’ my touch.”

Dean feels the mattress shift as she crawls over to the edge of the bed and settles down beside him, long legs ending in red panties. She’s all warm, tanned skin with freckles forming random patterns over her chest and bare breasts. 

Her name’s “Call Me Shelley” and he thinks she’s real pretty.

That’s not the problem.

“Look, don’t sweat it,” she continues, slipping a hand inside the waistband of his boxers. “You’re not the first guy whose engine stalled, if you know what I mean. Fortunately for you, I’m an excellent mechanic.”

And yeah, the words are cheesy as fuck but they also kind of work, calm him down a bit.

Her fingers tug gently on short, wiry hairs before running over the length of his cock. Dean leans back and closes his eyes, tries to concentrate on the sensation; pretends that he’s getting hard under her fingers and that he _wants_. 

“No, don’t,” he chokes out, suddenly, eyes flying open. He sits up and pulls her hand away, stomach churning with frustration. This isn’t going to work. He curls into himself and stares down at his toes as they drag back and forth against the sticky carpet. 

“You ever been with a woman before, Dean?” Shelley asks, sounding more curious than anything now. 

He sneaks a look at her from the corner of his eye. She doesn’t seem pissed off, or like she’s about to start screaming for one of big guys from out front to come in and deal with the freak. 

Dean shrugs, defensive. “I’ve done stuff. Kissing and shit. And, um, given hand jobs, sometimes.” He pauses and takes a deep breath, before adding defiantly, “Guys too.” 

“So, what? You didn’t like it?”

“I dunno. Some of it was okay.” 

He doesn’t know why he’s telling her any of this, only that he got an overwhelming need to tell someone. Someone who’s not Sam or his Dad or, god forbid, Bobby, which leaves the list kind of short. 

“So, tell me what part you liked, then.”

“Dunno,” Dean repeats automatically, frowning when she slaps the back of a hand against his shoulder. His eyes flicker around the room: door, lamp, table, bed, Shelley. “Um, chicks. Girls, women, whatever. I like the way their skin feels and, um. You know, the way they’re sort of soft and, fuck. This is stupid.” 

“S’not stupid. Keep going.”

“I don’t know! I like flirting and holding them. Sometimes it’s nice and kind of, shivery, I guess. But when I - “ Dean swallows hard, and waves his hand in the direction of his lap. “I just, I don’t feel anything. Not like I should.”

“Hey, listen. One thing this game teaches you is that “should” don’t get much of a look in when it comes to sex. You ever touch yourself?” 

“What?”

“When you’re alone. You ever jerk off, make yourself come?”

Dean turns away, sure that his face is so hot that it’s going to melt right off and form a gooey mess on the floor. He opens his mouth, before closing it again and settling for a small nod. 

“So, just not with other people then, right?”

“Maybe,” Dean whispers, fingers twisting into the sheets. 

“Well, that don’t mean there’s anythin’ wrong with you." She runs a hand up and down his arm. “Some people just…everyone’s different, you know? S’not a bad thing.” 

He nods, shoulders slumped in defeat. “Yeah. Sure.”

‘Cause “bad” is pretty much the definition of this whole, fucked up mess as far as Dean’s concerned. There’s no universe in which this is going to be okay. He’s broken and a freak and there’s nothing he can do to change any of it. 

Happy birthday to him.

It was easier to ignore when Sam was younger and still thought that girls carried cooties. But he’s seen the way that his brother’s face flushes when this one girl from school waves hello. And it’s all “Tanya said this” and “Tanya said that” every afternoon, when they’re walking home. He’s pretty sure they make out when no one’s around. 

Sometimes he hates Sam, just a little, for finding “normal” so easy and leaving him behind.

Shelley’s eyes are sad when they meet his, and then corner of her mouth quirks, breaking into a smile. “So, what are we gonna do now, huh? ‘Cause your Daddy’s paid for the full hour and I like my friends to have a good time. Especially the cute ones.” 

Dean’s chest heaves in a convulsive breath, a small knot of panic unravelling inside him. God. She’s not going to kick him out early and make him watch his Dad’s face fall with disappointment. He doesn’t think it’s about the money; she’d probably get to keep it anyway. And yeah, maybe she’ll tell everyone later, after he’s gone, and they’ll all laugh at the pathetic kid who couldn’t get it up, but whatever.

Maybe she won’t.

Dean chews on his lip, torn between saying nothing and not giving a fuck. “Um. Maybe we could just-lie-here-and-I-could-hold-you,” he finally mumbles, in a rush.

His reward is a bright grin that transforms Shelley’s face from pretty into some kind of beautiful. “Hell yeah, we can do that. We can definitely do that.”

She takes his hand, twisting their fingers together and pulls him back onto the bed. There’s a moment of awkward shuffling as they untangle the sheets and find a way of fitting their bodies together. Then it’s quiet, apart from the whirl of a ceiling fan and the distant slam of a door.

Shelley’s head rests on his shoulder and her breasts are a warm, heavy weight against the side of his chest. He runs a hand down the smooth skin of her back. Her hair smells like shampoo, but it’s the floral kind that girls like and that Dean likes on girls.

“You good?” she asks, twisting her head back to look at him. Dean leans down, presses their mouths together, and replies, “Yeah, I’m good.”


End file.
